


Journey by Night

by ktyxdovahkiin



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Code of Malacath, I mean literally these female characters are incredibly strong, I mean they ARE orcs you know, Mother-Daughter Relationship, Muscles, Narzulbur, Orcs, Orsimer - Freeform, Revenge, Strength, Strong Female Characters, Very Strong Female Characters, by the gods it's cold, grueling arduous torturous trek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 14:21:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21357652
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktyxdovahkiin/pseuds/ktyxdovahkiin
Summary: An Orc knows only strength or death. But Urog will not let Uglarz die. She will carry her all the way to Windhelm if she must. But the night is cold, and time grows short. Urog must be strong, or they will both die.This story is inspired by the short story "Journey by Night", by Norah Burke - an excellent short story that seems impossible to find nowadays except in obscure out-of-print IGCSE textbooks, weirdly enough. There is currently no extant online copy, unfortunately.This story takes place chronologically after "The Windhelm Murders, Redux: Now Comes the Mourning".
Comments: 5
Kudos: 11





	Journey by Night

“Is Malacath angry with me?” Mauhulakh asked quietly.

Urog did not answer her father, for it was a question with no answer, deserving no response. It was a stupid question. They were Orsimer. Malacath was _always _angry with them. It was how he loved his people. His endless rage made them strong, made them better. Her father Mauhulakh, Chief of Narzulbur, was… not strong.

They stood together outside the longhouse. Chief Mauhulakh raised his eyes to the sky. “Spirits!” he said. “Why have the gods cursed me? Finally, I have a wife again. Four have died, and now I have Uglarz. But now she too lies dying. Galka was strong, but Uglarz is stronger still. Surely she should not die like this, sick and weak, unable to stand. She is a mighty huntress of trolls, a slayer of Giants. A warrior who has faced dragons and lived. Tell me, Malacath, why must Uglarz die?”

The uncaring skies did not answer.

“If I am the one who is cursed for weakness, do not let my curse fall upon my wives,” Mauhulakh cried. His eyes shone as no Orc’s eyes should shine. “Let it fall only on me. Malacath! Hear my plea!”

“Malacath does not hear pleas, Father,” Urog growled, unable to contain herself. Her sinews bunched up as she clenched her fists. “Malacath rewards _deeds._ And you have none.”

Her father turned his watery eyes on her. “Daughter… Urog. I am proud of you. You are a strong woman, like your mother. Your strength helps sustain this tribe.”

“I know it,” Urog snarled back. “My brother and I know it. We do not need you to tell us.”

Mauhulakh lowered his gaze – another thing no Orc chief should ever do. But before Urog could rebuke him further, the door to the longhouse opened. Her brother Dushnamub strode out, his face as grim as a thunderhead. He met his sister’s gaze, shook his head, and stalked away.

Urog followed after. “Brother. How does it look?”

“Not good,” he said shortly. “Uglarz may not last the night.”

“Can Bolar do nothing with her herblore?”

Dushnamub came to a halt, and spun around. His eyes were twin pits of red rage. “I told you again and again, sister. But you would not listen. I tell you again. I have worries. Fears that do not come from nothing. You keep saying I’m crazy, but I tell you, Sheogorath has no hold on me!” He bared his sharp teeth. “Sheogorath fears me and stays well away! I’m not mad, sister. Our aunts, they are responsible for this. Do not look for a cure from Bolar’s store of herbs. Do not think that Uglarz will become well under Yatul’s watchful gaze.” He spat to the side. “They have poisoned her.”

“Poisoned, or cursed?”

“Either. Just as they did to the four before Uglarz. To our own mother. They share a bed with our father. This is the shame of Narzulbur! Remember that they are not our aunts – they are _his_ aunts!”

“I know that,” Urog snarled. “I have said so myself.”

“Then why would you not believe me when I say, it is Yatul and Bolar who together have done this? If we don’t find some way of…”

Dushnamub’s voice trailed off as they heard the sound of others approaching them. Before long, Gadba gro-Largash and Mul gro-Largash came out of the darkness, talking with each other in low whispers. They stopped as they saw Dushnamub and Urog.

“Back from the mines?” Dushnamub asked them.

They nodded. “We dug up the amount you told us you needed. The ore is beside the smelter. Now, we rest,” Gadba told him.

“How’s Uglarz doing? Any better?” Mul asked.

Dushnamub said nothing. Urog answered for him. “She is still sick. But she is strong. She will get well.”

The two miners looked at each other and shook their heads. “I’m really starting to think your Chief Mauhulakh is as cursed as our old Chief Yamarz was,” Mul muttered. “This time, though, I don’t think we’ll get a Dragonborn passing through to help Narzulbur get back in Malacath’s good graces.”

Mul and Gadba were not natives of Narzulbur. They were miners from Largashbur, far to the south. It was yet another mark of shame upon their stronghold that they had to ask other strongholds for help in providing labor. No stronghold would send a woman to be Mauhulakh’s wife now – the word had spread. His wives were ill-fated. The four gravestones on a hill above the longhouse were mute testimony to this truth.

No other stronghold needed a graveyard for the chief’s wives. Or a graveyard at all. Mauhulakh had become as soft as the lowlanders, the Elves and Men and other races in the cities. And since the chief was the only one in a stronghold who had the right to father children, Narzulbur’s days were numbered.

“It will be as Malacath wills,” Dushnamub said. “Uglarz was strong, but not strong enough to overcome this curse. A pity. She really would’ve made a fine wife for our father.”

Gadba spoke up. “Dushnamub, why do you not challenge your father and kill him? If you take his place, perhaps the curse will be broken. Then, if Uglarz lives, you take her for a wife.” He grinned at his own cleverness.

“No,” Urog found herself saying. “No. Uglarz will not die.”

“Sister, speak sense. What can you do?”

“Have you heard the news? From the lowlands?” Urog asked.

“Why should we care about what happens to the soft outlanders?” Dushnamub growled.

“I spoke with Mogdurz.” Mogdurz was a miner, but she was also the one Orc among them who had the most contact with outlanders, since she helped to speak with merchants who bought the ebony ore they dug out of Gloombound Mine. “In the city called Windhelm, there is a powerful mage. It is a Dunmer woman, come recently to the city. They say she is wise, with strong magic, and knows how to cure poison. She can help Uglarz.”

Dushnamub spat again. “Seeking aid from soft outlanders,” he growled. “From an Elf, no less. Are you sure you haven’t gone as soft as our father, Urog?”

“Well, now, wait a moment,” Mul spoke up. “There’s nothing wrong with getting help from other races. If they help us, it’s because they fear us, see? I’ve heard of this Elf woman too. They say she’s from that terrifying place far to the north, the College of Winterhold. You know, with all the wizards and mages together in one place. They also say she knows the Dragonborn! Imagine the honor Urog will bring to Narzulbur, if she can convince this Dunmer to help Uglarz!”

Urog cast him a grateful look. He caught her eye and gave a little nod. Gadba was looking at him admiringly. “You always were the smart one, Mul,” he said. “When we’re chiefs, I’ll let you take first pick of the wives. You should have that.”

“Right… well… let’s, uh, cross that bridge when we come to it, eh, Gadba?”

“They will cast you out,” Dushnamub said. “None of us have ever made it as far as their gates. They will jeer at you from their high walls, and throw stones at you, or cast spears, or shoot arrows. We are not welcome in their lands. Their Jarl has a powerful voice, like thunder. I’ve heard that he can crush enemies with his voice alone. You and Uglarz would never survive the trip, even if you make it that far.”

“I’m afraid you’re a bit behind the times, Dushnamub,” Mul told him. “That Jarl is gone. He’s been replaced. There was a… you do know there was a war in Skyrim up until recently, right? It’s over, and well, there’s a new Jarl now.”

“Then this new Jarl will be even more fearsome, if he won the war!”

“Look… it’s hard to explain to you, I think, since you don’t actually get around much, but… you can ask Mogdurz for her opinion. She talks to the traders, the merchants. And I’ve travelled some, I’ve seen a bit of the world, and I’m telling you, I think things are changing. If Urog can bring Uglarz all the way down to Windhelm… I think they won’t be killed out of hand. There’s a good chance anyway.”

“I will take that chance,” Urog said. The choice was clear. “I have come to love Uglarz as a mother. She is everything an Orc woman should be. Strong, fearless and cunning. She is even more skilled at hunting than Yatul. She has taught me more than Yatul ever has. I will take her to Windhelm if there is a chance for her there.”

“Then you will bear the consequences,” her brother growled. But then his eyes softened. “I did tell you not to trust Yatul and Bolar so much. If they try to stop you, call for me. I’ll back you.”

“I will not need your help, brother. If my will cannot prevail in this, then I do not deserve to carry Uglarz to Windhelm.”

Urog turned and went into the longhouse, ignoring her father Mauhulakh as he sat outside. The embers in the hearth glowed weakly. She went straight to Uglarz’s bed, where she lay. The embers of Uglarz’s life were glowing just as weakly now, she thought to herself.

Yatul was there, and looked up at her approach. “The hour grows late, Urog. You should get some rest. There’s nothing more to be done here.”

“Uglarz will not last the night,” Bolar said quietly. She was there, too, but sitting further away. “I cannot do anything for her with my lore.”

“Can not, or will not?” Urog surprised herself by speaking so bluntly. She turned her eyes upon Yatul, who had risen to her feet. They glared at each other.

“I have taught you much, taken care of you,” Yatul began.

“Uglarz has taught me more, and I owe her much.”

“And what will you do for her?” Yatul sneered. “She is too far gone.”

“I will take her to the city of Windhelm.”

At the mention of the outlander city Bolar’s head jerked up, and Yatul hissed. “You would bring such shame upon your father’s stronghold? Upon the tribe?”

“It is no shame. If outlanders will help us, it means they fear our tribe.”

“Already your tongue is twisted like an outlander’s,” Yatul sneered. She stepped forward. “I say no. Accept Malacath’s will in this. She is doomed, like all the rest before her.”

Urog took a step forward, and squared her shoulders. “You are not the wife of this stronghold. You are not even the forgewife or huntswife. You are nothing. I will carry Uglarz on my back if I have to.”

“This is how you repay me for all I have taught you?”

“You have taught me much. I am grateful. But you will not stop me from doing this for my father’s wife.”

Yatul sneered. “Again and again, my nephew tries to find a wife, against the advice of his wiser aunts. Again and again, we are proven right. This time will be no different. And you will learn your place in this stronghold, Urog.” She put up her hands as if to grapple.

Urog put up her hands as well. But suddenly Bolar was between them, holding them apart. “Enough,” she said. “Enough, I say.”

“Bolar, what is this?” Yatul snarled.

They glared at each other for long moments.

“I have scried something in the entrails,” Bolar said at last. “Let her go. If she and Uglarz do not make it back alive, it is Malacath’s will. If they return, it is also his will.”

“You last told me you had scried nothing of note.”

“That was then. This is now. My latest scrying.”

This was met with a scornful silence. Then Bolar continued, “Urog is a good, loyal daughter. She could do it.”

“And do you want her to do it?”

“Maybe I do.” Bolar’s voice went low. “I have had enough, Yatul. Let it be up to the gods now. Let Malacath decide.”

“Careful now,” Yatul growled, her eyes wide. “Be careful.”

“I say the same to you,” Bolar growled back.

Understanding none of this, Urog moved to the bedside. Uglarz’s breathing was steady, but labored. But at Urog’s approach, her eyelids fluttered open.

“I am ashamed of my weakness, Urog,” she said quietly.

“There is no weakness in you.” Urog bent and threw Uglarz’s arm over her shoulders, helping the larger Orc woman to sit up. “We will go to this city, this Windhelm. We will break whatever curse ails you and my father. Narzulbur will be strong again.”

“As long as Mauhulakh spends all this time moping over women, our tribe will never be strong,” Yatul muttered, crossing her arms and turning away. “Go, then. The climb is long and steep, and the night is dark and full of foes. A blizzard is beginning. A stripling Orc girl and a dying Orc woman will die in the wilds, food for wolves.”

Urog said nothing. She and Uglarz walked out together, with Urog bearing as much of Uglarz’s weight as she could.

Outside, Dushnamub was waiting with her weapons, which he had forged with his own hands. Urog selected only her dagger of orichalcum, which she shoved into her belt.

“You should take your axe.”

“It will weigh me down too much. I must help Uglarz to walk.”

Uglarz spoke, her voice strained but proud. “If you have to carry me there, girl, then I do not deserve to live through the night.” She lifted her hand off Urog’s strong shoulders and stood, swaying.

“Even the mightiest of warriors needs time to recover from a deadly wound,” Dushnamub told her respectfully. “We’ve all seen your strength in battle. There is no shame now in letting Urog help you.”

“Then I will carry her axe for her. Give it here. See, Urog, I carry it in my hand. If you have to help me, bear only half my weight. I will bear the other half.”

Thus it was that the two Orc women shambled out of the gates of Narzulbur together, their silhouettes causing them to seem like a strange two-headed creature.

The wind was picking up, sending flurries of snow flying across the land, obscuring Urog’s vision. She narrowed her eyes. Both Yatul and Uglarz had taught her tracking and wildcraft. But in her heart she knew, Uglarz was the better teacher. She knew which way she had to go, and Uglarz by her side did not correct her as they moved.

Full night fell. The biting wind was sharp on Urog’s cheeks. She had given Uglarz an extra blanket of warm fur to wrap around herself, but for her own part she was wearing only her usual hunting furs. Still, the exercise sent warm blood rushing through her muscles. She continued at a steady pace. The path away from Narzulbur was a gentle downward slope, not difficult to traverse.

“We will get there soon, Uglarz,” she said. “They will honor us and help us.”

Uglarz said, “They may refuse. They have little love for our people. It has always been the way.”

“Only because we are so much stronger than they are. It is as Mul gro-Largash said. They will help us because they fear my anger if they refuse.”

Uglarz chuckled breathlessly. “Do not tell me you are fool enough to believe that, dear girl. Mul is a fool who has spent too much time talking to outlanders. He does not keep wholly to the Code of Malacath. Trust only every other word that comes out of his mouth.”

“Still, he spoke wisdom to my brother just now. If not for him, Dushnamub would not have seen that this is the right thing for me to do.”

“And are you so sure it is, Urog?”

They continued for some time without speaking. Step after step, through the deepening snow.

Then Urog said, “Uglarz, do you know what ails you? You are even stronger than my mother Galka was. What manner of curse could strike you both down?”

"I do not know. But I doubt it is Malacath’s will.” Uglarz took another deep breath before she could continue. “Malacath does not test us like this, and then stay silent. This is not his way.” She spoke confidently, and Urog believed her, for Uglarz was wise and knew the Code well. “Do you know what happened in Largashbur?”

“I heard rumors, and the stories told by Mul and Gadba. But Largashbur is far, far to the south. I don’t know what happened.”

“There was a testing. The old chief Yamarz was weak, a liar and a coward. Some outsiders came to the stronghold. A Giant was attacking. The outsiders helped to slay it. Their shaman communed with Malacath. Malacath’s voice boomed in response, and set Yamarz a test. Yamarz was conniving, and convinced the outsiders to help him pass the test. Then he tried to attack them. They slew him. Malacath rewarded them with Volendrung.”

“The Hammer of Might? He gave them such a mighty weapon?”

“Yes. The outsiders gave it to the new chief, Gularzob, but he refuses to wield it. He knows he is not worthy. It may still be in Largashbur, or someone else may have taken it. I do not know. But I know this much: this is Malacath’s way. He will speak directly to us if he tests us. He does not skulk like a thief and coward. This… sickness of mine, it is not his doing. Mauhulakh’s four dead wives, including your mother, were not slain by him as a testing.”

They came to a long wooden bridge spanning a gorge. The ropes swayed in the strong winds.

“Steady now. Lean on me.”

“If I lean too hard, and the winds blow, you will fall.”

“My legs are strong. You trained me well. I will not fall.”

Halfway across the bridge a strong wind blew, and they staggered, but their footing remained firm and they did not slip. Urog’s heart beat a fast tattoo. She clutched hard at the parts of Uglarz under her hands – her right hand on Uglarz’s meaty forearm, her left arm tight around Uglarz’s sturdy waist.

“I will not let you fall,” she grunted. “We are strong together.”

“Your mother would have been proud of you, Urog gra-Galka.”

They made it across the bridge at last. Urog’s legs trembled, but she snarled wordlessly at the fatigue, to make it flee, and she carried on.

The path was becoming rocky. Uglarz stumbled on loose rocks.

“I will carry you,” Urog said. “It will be easier.”

Uglarz groaned, but made no comment as Urog heaved her onto her back. This was how Urog knew that even Uglarz’s great strength was being sorely tested. It was a testament to her fortitude that even now, her left hand gripped Urog’s battleaxe with an unfaltering grip.

Bent over nearly double, she strode on, determinedly keeping a steady pace. The sky was overcast, and there was no light from the moons and stars now. Snow whipped endlessly across her face. She could see only a few feet ahead. But it was enough for her to make sure that her feet came down safely on firm ground. She kept moving. Uglarz’s life depended on it.

She knew she should keep Uglarz talking, to keep her from slipping into a fatal sleep. “You told me you knew my father when he was a child.”

“Hrm. Yes.”

“What was he like?”

“You know. Little scrawny fellow.”

“Tell me more. Tell me of my mother Galka.”

“She came to the stronghold shortly before I left for the woods. I never knew her well. But I could see she was big and strong. A good wife for Mauhulakh.”

“Maybe too good.”

“Ha! Maybe.”

“She would have been happy to meet you. To get to know you.”

“I would have been glad too, to try my strength against hers. Perhaps I should have come back to challenge her.”

“With you around, she would have had to be the forge wife.”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps she could have beaten me, and I’d be the forge wife.”

Urog felt a pang. They would never know which of the two, Galka or Uglarz, was the stronger. It was always important for Orcs to know these things, to know the order of precedence among their fellows.

“Her spirit in the Ashen Forge would be happy to know you have taken such good care of me,” Urog said.

“Perhaps soon, I shall join her there myself.”

Urog gritted her teeth, and widened her stride.

Then they both heard an awful, familiar swishing.

“The ice devils are here,” Urog murmured.

“Take… the axe…” Uglarz grunted, and coughed.

Urog set her down as gently as she could, to lean against a boulder. Then she took up her axe in both hands and stood guard, senses keen.

From out of the darkness came a flash of silvery fangs. Urog whirled and caught the attack on the haft of her axe. The fangs of the Ice Wraith shattered against the forged ebony. With a whirling movement that Uglarz had taught her, Urog swung the head of the axe around, and the blade cleaved through the serpentine spine of the monster. It shattered and peppered Urog’s front with shards of crumbling ice. Spots of blood appeared on Urog’s forearms where the ice had struck with enough force to pierce her tough skin.

“Another,” Uglarz gasped.

Urog spun around and brought up her axe just in time to ward off a diving strike by the Ice Wraith’s partner. It was cannier and less reckless than the first one, and veered away into the darkness for another attack. Urog hunched over and waited. Yatul it was, who had first taught her to rely less on her eyes and more on her other senses. But Uglarz had taught her to feel with her skin in ways even Yatul did not know.

So when the second Ice Wraith swooped in at her, the blade of her ebony battleaxe sliced it lengthwise, from maw to tail. It too exploded into crystalline shards, and then was gone.

Urog lifted her axe high overhead, and struck the ground, so that it stood upright with the haft jutting up. Then she went over to Uglarz and lifted her onto her back again.

“Well fought, girl,” Uglarz whispered into her ear, and her words warmed Urog’s belly.

Then Urog reached out to take her axe, and they carried on.

Hours passed. The winds died down at last. The clouds still obscured most of the night sky. Ahead, there was the sound of rushing water.

Urog’s heart sank. That was usually a shallow stream less than ankle-deep, but evidently some snows had melted further upstream. Before long, she stood on the bank of the engorged waters, and there was a roaring torrent to ford. Urog guessed that it would be almost waist high at the center. She looked left, and right; there was no better place to try and ford the waters.

Uglarz crossed her ankles, and gripped Urog’s waist tightly with her thighs. She braced her arms across Urog’s chest.

“Do not let go, Uglarz. We will cross this. I will not fail you now.”

“You will never fail me, Urog.”

Even though Urog had braced herself, the shock of the cold water still jarred her as she took her first step into the snowmelt. She gritted her teeth and took the next step. And then the next. Soon her leather boots were soaked through, and the water was halfway up her thighs. She could feel the force pushing at her like a great malevolent hand, wanting to sweep her and her beloved Uglarz away into oblivion.

She closed her eyes, and thought of something she had once been told by a strange woman who had visited Narzulbur briefly. A Nord woman, almost strong enough to be an Orc. The woman had bested Mauhulakh in a feat of strength, although admittedly that was nothing to brag about, and thus won guest-right for the night. She had given Urog some memorable words to live by.

“Push the world harder than it pushes back.” The mere memory of her words was enough to send strength flowing again through her sinews.

Urog clenched her teeth, and pushed the world.

When she was in the middle of the flowing stream, and almost waist-deep as she’d feared, the stone underneath became very slippery. She had to take each step with extreme care, yet she had to move quickly, because Uglarz’s feet were touching the water and she did not want the boots to become soaked as her own were becoming. She could not afford to fall.

Now, each step demanded immense effort from her, both physical and mental. The water seemed to cling on to her legs, tugging at them, holding them in place when she needed them to move. She was becoming numb. If she lost all feeling in her limbs, Uglarz was doomed as well. She forced herself to move. Forward, ever forward.

And then she was stepping out on the other side, with trembling legs, gasping and gulping air into her lungs. Against her back, she could feel Uglarz shivering. When she called Uglarz’s name, she only received a weak moan in response. Uglarz was fading. Urog knew she could not stop to rest. She had to move on.

She was almost out of the mountains. A short distance away, the rough track she was on finally joined something of a path. From here on out, the path would wend its way through a network of cave entrances, and then eventually come out onto the main road used by the lowlanders. Then there would be a trek through their farmland – a relaxing stroll compared to what they’d already endured – and then to the bridge and gate of the stone city, where the outsiders would either help them… or not.

They were Orcs. They were the Pariah Folk, the Cursed People. The world was harsh and cruel. That was the way of things.

She was shaking and trembling all over now as they walked. Her feet crunched with every step, because the water soaking her boots had frozen, and now cut into her feet as she moved. She considered going barefoot, but she would have to stop to take her boots off. She did not want to stop. It was not yet time. She had to keep going.

Then there was a snorting and a snuffling – a sound familiar to all hunters in the mountains. A sound that would make even an Orc feel fear.

“You test me further, Malacath,” she whispered. The fact that there had been no word of warning from Uglarz was a sign that Uglarz had lapsed into unconsciousness. Otherwise, even in her current state, Uglarz would have sensed the Frost Troll before Urog did.

Urog found a suitable rock wall against which to set Uglarz down, gently, and then she held her axe before her in trembling hands as the hulking shape shuffled out of the cave hole. Uglarz was still breathing evenly. That was good. She was hanging on. Urog, too, had to hold on.

Out of nowhere, she recalled a conversation with Yatul, once, when they had been hunting together. They had been hunting snowy sabre cats.

“What’s the most dangerous beats you’ve ever killed?” she’d asked Yatul.

“Oh… probably a Troll.”

“They’re fearsome!”

“They are indeed. Nothing like your mother though!”

“That’s what everyone keeps saying. But you didn’t kill her. That’s what I was asking.”

“Oh, of course. My mistake.”

Now Urog bared her teeth. The realization had come at last. Yatul had been responsible for Galka’s death somehow. Probably Bolar as well.

And in all likelihood, they too had done whatever they’d done to Uglarz.

The red berserker veil descended across her vision. The sounds of the world faded into an echoing whisper. The Frost Troll lunged at her, seemingly in slow motion. She moved. The large arm swiped down at her, claws raking her flesh. Droplets of her blood flew through the air. But her axe cleaved through the shoulder of that arm, sundering it in a welter of dark fountaining blood.

The Frost Troll roared in agony, the sound reverberating all around. In Urog’s ears, it rolled like distant thunder.

But she knew the arm would begin growing back, and in a matter of hours it would be as though the Troll had never lost it. She swung again, hacking into the tough rubbery flesh, matching the Troll’s ferocity with her own.

Her axe, with its blade of midnight black, had been forged with the ebony from their own mines, from the richest of veins. Dushnamub was a smith of no small skill. He had forged this fearsome weapon for his sister with all the craft he possessed. Now, as Urog bled from half a dozen blows struck by the creature, she swung, and sent her blade slicing neatly through the Frost Troll’s neck stem, separating the head from the body with a cleaving blow. The lifeless head rolled away. The body swayed, then toppled.

Urog dropped to her knees. Her axe lay beside her on the ground. Instead of picking it up, she reached out and dipped her hands into the pools of bloodied Troll fat on the carcass, coating her hands with it.

Then she crawled over on hands and knees to Uglarz and rubbed the substance all over her face, her fierce beautiful face. She made a few more trips like this, and rubbed the warm fat into Uglarz’s muscles, covering as much of Uglarz’s skin as she could. Only when Uglarz’s eyelids fluttered open did Urog stop to do the same for herself.

“You must… leave me. Find a… cave. Start… fire. Get food… in belly. Survive.”

Urog shook her head and once again heaved Uglarz onto her back. This time, she did not bend down to retrieve her axe. It would have to lie there, until perhaps she could come back to get it, or until some intrepid brigand found and claimed it. They were almost out of the mountains, away from the caves. The main road was not far. She would not need the axe anymore. Speed was of the essence now.

The berserker strength had faded. Now she left a trail of bloodied footsteps behind her as she stumbled on. It would attract wolves, perhaps. But she had to move fast now.

She was not moving as fast as she would have liked. In fact, each step she took seemed too slow. And each step seemed wont to be her last. But she went on. She bowed her head, and put one foot in front of the other.

Suddenly, there was a strange sound in the air. It was the sound of a whistling arrow. Almost immediately, Uglarz jerked violently, once.

Urog sank onto one knee, and tried to lower Uglarz to the ground, but the larger Orc woman fell heavily onto her side. There was an arrow sticking out of her back. Uglarz lay there, breathing raggedly. She blinked once, twice. Urog stared.

Then someone was upon Urog, wrapping a thick arm around her neck. Urog twisted and tried to turn, clutching at the arm, grappling with her unknown foe. Her limbs were leaden. Her strength was failing. Somehow, she managed to twist out of the way, and drew her only remaining weapon – the dagger at her belt, which she always used to skin the carcasses of prey. She held it as tightly as she could in her right hand, with her thumb on the hilt, and spun around to face her assailant, almost falling over with fatigue.

Yatul stood there, with a quiver on her back. The bow that had shot Uglarz lay on the ground some distance away. She held a war axe in her hand, but when she saw the dagger Urog was holding, she smiled, and flung her axe away. She reached for her own dagger and drew it.

They crouched, mirroring each other. Then they came together, each grabbing her opponent’s right wrist with her left hand. They braced their legs, and strained against each other.

“A pity to kill you. You are strong,” Yatul hissed. “But progeny are a distraction. A chief should stand proudly alone. Mauhulakh needs only me, and Bolar.”

Urog bared her teeth. Her vision was blurring. Her muscles felt soft, filled with water instead of flesh. Her arms trembled more and more violently with her hopeless exertion. Slowly, her right arm was pulled out and to the side, the dagger moving further and further from Yatul. And at the same time, Yatul brought her dagger closer and closer to Urog’s neck, overpowering the strength of Urog’s arm. She was tired, so tired. Yatul was fresh. And Yatul had always been so strong.

“I will tell you a secret before you die, Urog.” Yatul leaned in. “Your mother was the strongest woman I ever fought. Even with three of my arrows in her, she almost overcame me. But I killed her in the end. And this was how she died, too. My dagger in her throat. Her dagger, far from mine. Now, join her.”

The point of the dagger pricked Urog’s neck, drawing a bead of blood. Urog threw back her head, and howled.

She prayed, then, in her mind. She addressed their cruel, loving god Malacath. And it seemed to her, in her state of exhausted delirium, that she truly stood on a vast, open plain, under an ash-filled smoky sky, gazing out at the impossibly huge skeleton of an ancient creature spanning the horizon.

Her voice thundered across this place. “Malacath! Orc-Father! Keeper of the Sworn Oath and the Bloody Curse! I have never prayed to you before. I lack the tongue for it. But Uglarz, whom I love as a mother, has taught me your Code. We live by it. All that matters is that we have stood together, that we are strong together! That's what's important! Valor pleases you, Malacath, so grant me one request: grant me revenge!

“And if you do not listen… _Then to Oblivion with you!”_

From somewhere far away, under the vault of that ashen sky, came the sound of guttural, delighted laughter.

And then it was Yatul whose eyes filled with fear, as Urog’s right arm bent inwards again, her muscles flexing against Yatul’s, bringing the dagger in slowly but inexorably towards Yatul’s neck. Yatul’s left hand shook, moving away from Urog’s neck, until at last Yatul cried out and dropped her dagger. Urog had crushed her wrist and broken her bones.

In her last moments, Yatul looked up with wide eyes and made as if to speak. But Urog did not give her a chance to. There was no more time for words. There was only the plunging of her dagger into the throat of her mother’s killer, and the would-be killer of Uglarz whom she loved with a daughterly love. A twist of the dagger, and the life fled Yatul’s features. Her body slumped and fell heavily onto the blood-spattered snow.

Urog sank to her knees. Exhaustion threatened to claim her then. But she turned and saw that Uglarz lived still, though at the very brink of death.

Laboriously she clambered to her feet, and staggered over. She broke the shaft of the arrow – it was a mixed blessing that Uglarz was too far gone to feel the sharp pain of that. The arrowhead was barbed – it would have to stay in for now. But the thick sheath of muscle that covered Uglarz’s back had stopped it from penetrating very far.

She carried Uglarz across her back like the body of a slain deer, crosswise. It was the easiest, though the most shameful. She did not realize when the ground had become level, nor when the ground had become the paved cobblestone of an outlander road, but walking was now easier, and she plodded on.

Dawn was breaking. She could see the walls now of the stone city, Windhelm. She set her path. Her world had been reduced to her destination, and the necessity of walking towards it, for a slim chance of saving the life of Uglarz. There was no room for anything else in her mind.

So she did not realize that she had come close to a horse-drawn wagon trundling along the road, laden with wheat. But it did not give her pause. Not even the startled shouts of the man sitting atop the wagon was reason enough for her to stop.

“Talos preserve us! Orcs! _Orcs!”_

The wagon came to a halt. There was another man driving the horses. He turned around, and gaped.

The first man, a small weedy runt, nearly fell out of the wagon. “Orc bandits! From the mountains!”

Urog came to a stop. If she and Uglarz were to die, she would make sure that she fought well enough for the both of them to find their way to the Ashen Forge.

The second man jumped off the driver’s seat. “For pity’s sake, Tulvur. These aren’t bandits. Look at them. They’re not even armed. Mara have mercy… those wounds…!”

“They’re _Orcs,_ Grimvar. Raiders, belike. They don’t _have_ to be armed. They’re _born_ armed!”

“You talk like that to the Orcish Legionnaires in the garrison?” the one called Grimvar snapped. “Don’t be foolish, Tulvur.”

Neither of them looked very large for Nord men, Urog thought dully. But she was dead on her feet. There was little chance she could survive this fight.

The second man, Grimvar, approached them, slowly, hands held out. “Uh, greetings, Orc. Do you… do you need help?”

Urog swallowed. Her throat was dry. Her voice came out in a husky rasp. “Came from… stronghold. Narzulbur. Uglarz… poisoned, or cursed… need… wise Elf woman… in Windhelm.”

Grimvar looked astonished. Then he looked at Urog with new understanding.

“’Wise elf woman in Windhelm,’ huh?” he repeated. “I think I know the one you mean. Come on. We’ll give you a ride the rest of the way. Tulvur, come help. Take that side. Don’t be foolish, just look at them, they’re no harm to us right now. No, you fool, firmly. Don’t drop her. By the gods, these Orc women. I swear they’re all muscle and bone. All right… onto this… head there… and now, your turn, err, lady. Steady now, you’re all right. You’re all right. Tulvur, quick, take her legs…”

When Urog opened her eyes again she was under a stone sky. She blinked. No, she was inside a room, with walls of stone. She lay on a soft bed. She was alone. There was no sign of Uglarz.

She grunted softly as she sat up on the side of the bed. Her body ached all over. But her wounds had closed. She felt very hungry.

Outside the door, she could hear a voice. A man with a deep, resonant voice was speaking, and the sound carried well through the corridor.

“Never thought I’d see the day. Wild Orcs, from the strongholds, not only _inside_ Ysgramor’s city, but inside his _Palace! _I mean, the city Orcs in the Legion, they’re obviously different, but _these_ Orcs…! The times they are a-changing, Sifnar, the times they are a-changing, and no mistake…”

The voice receded as the speaker moved away.

Urog rose to her feet, wincing slightly. She was bone-weary, yet she felt as if she had slept enough that more sleep would not help. It would do her good anyway to move about, and let her body regain its strength naturally. That was the Orcish way.

Before she could walk to the door, it opened to admit a slight figure – a Dark Elf woman in well-cut robes. She stopped short when she saw Urog, and smiled, inclining her head slightly.

“Good to see you on your feet. Urog gra-Uglarz?”

“I do not have the honor of bearing her name,” Urog replied. “I am Urog, of Narzulbur. Urog gra-Narzul.”

Slowly, the Dunmer woman shook her head. “That’s not what she just told me,” she said, still smiling.

Then she said, more strongly, _“Urog gra-Uglarz._ Your mother will live. Come and see.”


End file.
